A Feminine Touch is a Hunter's Touch
by jules1013
Summary: Jo, girlchild to hunter, from an outsider's pov. Spoilers AHBL II. Jo x OFC, Jo x OMC, Jo x Dean UST. Rating is very adult. No underage readers. Second person narrative.


The first time you see Jo, the girl is just that--bit round in the face, her scowl perfected in the stubbornness of childhood that somehow translates into the _fuck you_ required in womanhood (at least when a woman finds herself growing up in a place like this). She swaggers like her curves aren't brand new, tosses her hair like it wasn't recently bound in braids. She plays a good game this girl-child, serving without inviting and making clear her boundaries without pissing anyone off--not that it much matters to hunters. No, if it weren't for her mama this girl'd be ripped to pieces by now, _fuck you_ or not.

It's easy. Judging by the initial roundness of her eyes, you know you're the first female hunter ever to pass through these parts. The shock eases out, and little Miss Joanna flicks her eyes toward the stairwell, as if to say _look Mama, there's no reason I can't too._ There's a flicker of hope when she notices you approaching the bar (a softness of mouth with the barest hint of tension at one corner) but its gone in a flash, leaving only the rounded shoulder of confidence and the even voice of entitlement. _Can I get you something to drink?_

You know an easy game yourself, take your time and just keep to yourself and your drink, a good six feet radius of personal space enclosing your bar stool. You may be an anomaly but you are a hunter, and the others know as much, know better than to hound you as they do this would-be, this girl-no-longer who cloths glasses spotless while still gauging the movement around her.

_You're a hunter_, she says sometime between the Roadhouse thinning out and your third drink.

_You're aiming to be._ She smiles at that, her eyes warring with the bottle in her hand and the warmth in your face.

_I always thought I would be the first._ You can't tell if she's relieved or jealous.

_Honey_--and it's not a threat--_even I'm not the first._

It doesn't take much--not that you expected it would--before she's pressing against you in the bathroom, her soft thighs trying to straddle your leaner, decidedly hunter's one. She's flushed, eager and surprisingly unafraid for someone (and her hips do not lie) who has never done this before. You think her excitement is erotic if not necessarily sexual, for she doesn't try to kiss you and that look if her eye should be reserved for the shooting range rather than a come-filled stall. Not that hunters much know the difference. _Yes,_ you think, _little hunter after all_.

The second time you see Jo she doesn't immediately see you. You are surprised but not impressed by her boldness; if you're right about her mother, this girl's stupid to be doing this anywhere Ellen might call her own.

He's got her bent over the sink, fucking her from behind while calloused hands grip her tits like they don't understand what pleasure might feel like. Her face is scrunched up, either from irritation or pleasurable tension, as he ruts mindlessly behind her and you notice that she comes anyway, her mouth forming a shallow O, the kind that makes her look like she has slightly buck teeth.

She presses back only to bump him off, zipper up before he's even got his jeans from his ankles. She saunters without word, just so he knows who's just used who.

If she's surprised to see you by the doorframe, she hides it well. Her smile is sure, friendly, but all she says is _you look like you need a drink._

Her talk hasn't gotten anymore personal than that; she just asks after your hunts and feeds you glass after glass. Despite such a courtship, sometime after last call she's got her knees in the dirt and her face in your crotch, tonguing your clit.

_No,_ you think, _even I'm not the first._

The next time you see Jo it's the last, but you don't know it. She's still wiping down countertops with liquor staining her tank, but the muscle flexing in her arm would be apparent even if she weren't working and her apron is shrouding hips leaner than accustomed, causing air to catch in dips and folds while she moves. Her eyes are harder and her jaw sharper, pointed at a leather-clad back seated in the corner. She doesn't look wistful, not exactly, but you think she wouldn't mind trading places with the giant sitting across from said leather.

When she sees you she doesn't smile.

You tell her about your hunts anyway, and soon her eyes light and her mouth quirks and her voice relaxes just a little. _I've put together a case,_ she says not without a hint of pride but she hands you the folder as if it were any other. _It's good,_ you tell her because it is and because you don't need flattery to get what you want, _this up for grabs?_

Ellen looks strained and worried near the kitchen, her attention divided between you and Jo and the figures in the corner, but still Jo leans in anyway--_Take me with you._

You should have been expecting it, and maybe you had, but still your answer surprises you, _maybe you should just keep this; it's your work, after all._ You think she should be put out and maybe she is, but still she's wet for you in the back of your truck, spread open and warm. You kiss her in the way she never tried to kiss you, you kiss her the best way you know how until she shudders against your chin.

You hear the roar of a muscle car and she looks distracted before pushing you off with a _need to get back._

The last time you mean to see her she's not there, and although no one's willing to part with information, you know your little hunter is out there with a knife in her boot and gun in her waistband. You smile and think that's fine.

You don't think you miss her nor that'd you'd look for her again until the one place to find her no longer exists. And that, you realize, is final.


End file.
